Holly Evans and the Philosophers Stone
by silversatyr
Summary: Holly Evans thought life with her aunt and uncle was tough. She never counted on being a witch or going to a school of magic, nor finding a mysterious trapdoor and making friends with whom she would share the adventure of a lifetime. What's a girl to do? A Girl!Harry story that explores what differences would really occur if Harry had been born in a world where he was female.


Chapter One: The Girl Who Lived

Mr. and Mrs. Evans, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Evans was a mathematics teacher at a school called Stonewall High. He was blonde, skinny and slightly balding, with a very long neck which he used to look down on his students with a critical eye. Mrs. Evans was a large, dumpy lady whose passion was cooking and boasting to the neighbours about her award-winning cakes and pies. The Evans' had a small daughter called Doris and in their opinion there was no prettier girl anywhere.

The Evans' had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Other Evans'. The Other Mr. Evans was Mr. Evans' brother, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mr. Evans pretended he didn't have a brother, because his brother and his good-for-nothing wife were as unEvansish as it was possible to be. The Evans' shuddered to think what the neighbours would say if the Other Evans' ever arrived in the street. The Evans' knew that the Other Evans' had a small daughter, too, but they had never even seen her. This girl was another good reason for keeping the Other Evans' away; they didn't want Doris mixing with a child like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Evans woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Evans hummed as he picked out his most geometrically-pleasing tie for work, and Mrs. Evans gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Doris into her high chair.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

At eight sharp, Mr. Evans picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Evans on the cheek, and tried to kiss Doris good-bye but missed, because Doris was now having a tantrum and throwing her cereal at the walls. "Little princess," chortled Mr. Evans as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar – a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Evans didn't realise what he had seen – then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Evans blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Evans drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive – no, _looking_ at the sign; cats couldn't read maps _or_ signs. Mr. Evans gave himself a little shake and tried to put that cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he focussed his thoughts on the large amount of homework he had given his sixth years that was due today, and not about a cat reading a map.

But on the edge of town, homework and cats were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mrs. Evans couldn't bear people who were dressed funny and Mr. Evans quite agreed – the getups you saw on young people! He hoped that this was just some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, trying to ignore the strange feeling of déjàvu that was threatening to overwhelm him, when his eyes fell on a huddle of the cloak-wearing weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Evans had a strange sinking feeling in his stomach when he saw that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and he was wearing an emerald-green cloak! But then it struck Mr. Evans that this was probably some silly stunt – these people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Evans arrived at Stonewall High, his mind preoccupied with homework, cats and cloaks, though he tried not to dwell too much on the last two.

Mr. Evans always took the classroom with the least windows and largest blinds, so as to discourage daydreaming and interruptions. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on anything that morning. He didn't see the owls swooping in broad daylight, though most of his students and the other faculty did; they found it hard to concentrate on their studies all morning as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl, even at night-time. Mr. Evans, though, had a reasonably normal, owl-free morning. He gave detention to three students. He made some very interesting points on the uses of trigonometry in real life and handed out even more homework. He was in a decidedly good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and take a walk to the nearby cafe and get himself a salad bun, looking for truants along the way.

He'd almost forgotten about the cat and the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the cafe. He eyed them with annoyance and a growing paranoia as he passed. He couldn't put his finger on it but something about them made him uneasy. This bunch was whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. His sense of déjà vu deepened, but it was on his way back past them, clutching a bun in a bag, when he caught a few words of what they were saying, that he finally managed to place it.

"The Evans', that's right, that's what I heard- "

"- yes, their daughter, Holly – "

Mr. Evans stopped dead in his tracks. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back to the school grounds, hurried to his small office, snapped at one of his favourite students not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialling his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his chin, thinking... no, he was being stupid. Evans wasn't an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Evans who had a daughter named Holly. It was a pretty common name, right? He might never have seen the girl but he was sure it had nothing to do with his brother. And even if it did have something to do with _that crowd..._ well, there were bound to be a lot of Evans' even in that crowd. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Evans anyway; she always got upset when he mentioned his brother. He didn't really blame her – she'd lost her brother and talking about his own... well. Still, those people in cloaks...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on math that afternoon, forgetting to assign homework to his classes, and when he left the building at five thirty, he was still so worried that he walked into someone just outside the parking lot.

"Sorry," he grunted, as a tall woman stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Evans realised that the woman was wearing a grey cloak. She seemed to be quite upset about being nearly knocked to the ground and wasn't afraid to voice it. "Just because today marks the day that You-Know-Who is finally gone doesn't make running into a filthy Muggle like yourself excusable! Watch where you're going next time, you loutish oaf!"

At that, the tall woman turned on her heel and strode off.

Mr. Evans stood rooted to the spot. He had just been told off by a complete stranger. He had also been called a Muggle, a word he recognised despite his hardest efforts to forget what he knew about _those _people. Severely rattled, he hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he believed only on logic and cold, hard facts.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw – and it didn't improve his mood – was the tabby cat from that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mr. Evans loudly.

The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behaviour? Mr. Evans wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Evans had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about the next cooking competition coming up and what she'd decided to cook for it and how Doris had learned a new word ("Shan't!"). Mr. Evans tried to act normally. When Doris had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed herself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jenny McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jenny?"

"Well, Tina," said the weatherwoman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early – it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise you a wet night tonight."

Mr. Evans sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about some Evans'...

Mrs. Evans came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er – Virginia, dear – you... did you notice anything odd in town today?

Mrs. Evans looked at him, puzzled. Obviously she hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary during the day.

"No," she said curiously, "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Evans mumbled, "Owls... shooting stars... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."

"_So_?" prodded Mrs. Evans.

"Well, I just thought... maybe... it was something to do with... you knows... my _brother's_ crowd."

Mrs. Evans sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Evans wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name 'Evans'. He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, "We haven't received any odd letters or anything lately? Phone calls?"

"No," said Mrs. Evans stiffly.

"No, I didn't think so. Their daughter... she'd be about Doris' age by now, right?"

"Holly? Yes, about the same age."

"Right..." said Mr. Evans, unable to put his unease into words.

"Is everything alright, dear?" Mrs. Evans asked, leaning forward to touch his arm. "You've been very stressed out lately. Maybe you should take a few days off?"

"Maybe I should..." Mr. Evans replied, non-commitedly, though the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. He had been working very hard lately and he was due a few days sick-leave.

They didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Evans was in the bathroom, Mr. Evans crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.

Was he really imagining things? Could all of this have anything to do with the Other Evans'? If it did... if it got out that they were related to a pair of - well, he didn't think he could bear it.

The Evans' got into bed. Mrs. Evans fell asleep quickly but Mr. Evans lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if his brother's family was involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Evans. The Other Evans' knew very well what he and Virginia thought about them and their kind. ...He couldn't see how he and Virginia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on – he yawned and turned over – it couldn't affect _them_. ...

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Evans might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A woman appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought she'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this woman had ever been seen on Privet Drive. She was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of her hair, which was long enough to reach past her backside. She was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. Her blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and her nose was a short button, as though it had been squashed into her face a few times. This woman's name was Ariana Dumbledore.

Ariana Dumbledore didn't seem to realise that she had just arrived in a street where everything from her name to her boots was unwelcome. She was busy rummaging through a large purse, looking for something. But she did seem to realise that she was being watched, because she looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at her from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse her. She giggled and murmured, "I should have known."

She found what she was looking for inside the front pocket of the purse. It seemed to be a silver lipstick container. She pulled off the lid, held it up in the air, and twisted the bottom. The nearest street light dimmed into darkness. She twisted it again – the next lamp dimmed and went out. Twelve times she used the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching her. If anyone looked out of their window now, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside the front pocket of her purse and set off down the street toward number four, where she sat down on the wall next to the cat. She didn't look at it, but after a moment she spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

She turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead she was smiling at a rather severe-looking man who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. He, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. His black hair was short and tidily combed. He looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" he asked.

"My dear Professor, I've never known a cat to sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been out celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's been celebrating, all right," he said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be more careful, but no – even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." He jerked his head back at the Evans' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting stars... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent. I'll bet that was Dorathea Diggle. She never had much sense.

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumours."

He threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping she was going to tell him something, but she didn't, so he went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose she really _has_ gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"A _what_?"

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though he didn't think this were the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who really _has_ gone – "

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call her by her name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense – for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call her by her proper name: _Amanita Rue._" Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unstacking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who'. I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Amanita's name."

"I know you haven't," said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, alright,_ Amanita_, was frightened of."

"You flatterer," said Dumbledore, playfully. "Amanita had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too – well – _noble_ to use them."

"It's lucky it's so dark. I haven't blushed so much since Master Pomfrey told me he liked my new earrings."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing next to the _rumours _that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why she's disappeared? About what finally stopped her?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point he was most anxious to discuss, the real reason he had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a man had he fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as he did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, he was not going to believe until Dumbledore told him it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

"What they're _saying_," he pressed on, "is that last night Amanita turned up in Godiva's Hollow. She went to find the Evans'. The rumour is that Leslie and Jamie Evans are – are – that they're – _dead_."

Dumbledore bowed her head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Leslie and Jamie... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it... Oh, Ariana..."

Dumbledore reached out and squeezed his hand. "I know... I know..." she said, tearfully.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as he went on. "That's not all. They're saying she tried to kill the Evans' daughter, Holly. But – she couldn't. She couldn't kill that little girl. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when she couldn't kill Holly Evans, Amanita's power somehow broke – and that's why she's gone."

Dumbledore nodded sadly.

"It's – it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all she's done... all the people she's killed... she couldn't kill a little girl? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop her... but how in the name of Merlin did Holly survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."

Professor McGonagall pulled out a large brown handkerchief and offered it to Dumbledore, who took it and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. She then gave a great sniff as she examined a golden wristwatch on her left arm. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because she nodded to herself and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was she who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me _why _you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Holly to her aunt and uncle. They're the only family she has left now."

"You don't mean – you _can't_ mean the people who live _here_?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to his feet and gesturing towards the house of number four. "Dumbledore – you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've this daughter – I saw her screaming at her mother all the way up the street, crying for sweets. Holly Evans come and live here!"

"It's the best place for her," said Dumbledore softly. "Her aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to her when she's older. I've written them a letter. And instructions."

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall quietly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all of this in a letter? These people will never understand her, not truly. She'll be famous - a legend – I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Holly Evans Day in the future – there will be books written about Holly and what happened this night. Every child will know her name!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, with a faint frown drawn across her features. "It would be enough to turn anyone's head. Famous before she can walk and talk! Famous for something she won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off she'll be, growing up away from all that until she's old enough to understand and deal with the pressure such notoriety will bring? Fame and adoration of that magnitude can cause worse scars than being sheltered a while. She'll be protected here, surrounded by a family that will support her when she finally comes to terms with her fame and abilities."

Professor McGonagall opened his mouth, though better of what he was about to say, closed it and shook his head. They stood in silence for a short while before Dumbledore sighed and once more checked her wristwatch.

"Dumbledore, just how is Holly - " Professor McGonagall started, but his sentence was cut short by the low rumbling of an engine in the distance. Dumbledore gave a mysterious smile as the Professor's eyes widened.

"Please tell me you didn't – " Once more his sentence was cut off, but this time it was due to the load roar above as a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the woman who sat astride it. She was almost twice as tall as a normal person, and her wild tangle of hair made her seem almost thrice as wide. It was bushy and black, falling about her large head and spilling down her back like a wild waterfall of wool. Her hands were like large, spindly spiders gripping the handles of the motorbike; her feet long and clown-like in length. In her long, gangly arms she cradled a bundle of blankets, holding them close to her ample bosom as though to protect their content by absorbing them into her body.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding quite relieved. "At last. And where did you come by that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, ma'am," said the giant woman, climbing carefully from the bike as she spoke. "Young Sable Black leant it to me. I have her, ma'am."

"I trust there were no problems?"

"No ma'am – house was almost destroyed, but I got her out before the Muggles started swarmin' around. She fell asleep as we were flyin' over Bristol."

Both Professors bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby girl, fast asleep. Under a small hood of jet-black curls they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where - ?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," breathed Dumbledore. "She'll have that scar forever, though it should fade over time."

"Can't do you something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in quite handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is... well, it's rather handy, is all I will say. Here, Hagrid. Pass her to me. We had best get this done before night's end."

Dumbledore took Holly into her arms, cradling her gently as she turned toward the Evans' house.

"Could – Could I say good-bye to her, ma'am?" asked Hagrid. She bent her large, wooly head over Holly and gave a gentle kiss to her forehead. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a sob like a large hiccough that echoed across the well-kept lawns of the tidy neighbourhood around them.

"Hush!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!"

"I-I'm s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, lace handkerchief and burying her face in it. "But I c-can't stand it – L-Leslie an' Jamie dead – an' poor little Holly off ter live with Muggles – "

"Yes, I know, it's all terribly sad, but please calm yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, though he patted Hagrid's arm gently as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. She laid Holly gently on the doorstep, took a large envelope from her purse, tucked it inside Holly's blankets, and bent to kiss the child on her cap of hair, murmuring a jumble of words as she did so.

She reached the other two as Hagrid's tears just began to slow, and they stood there for a full minute or so, watching the small bundle. Hagrid's shoulders still shook, Professor McGonagall surreptitiously rubbed one eye and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well then," said Dumbledore softly, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We should go and join the celebrations, I suppose."

"I guess," said Hagrid, her voice muffled, "I'd best get this bike back to Young Sable. 'Night, Professor McGonagall – Professor Dumbledore, ma'am."

With one last sniffle, she swung her lanky leg over the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to him. Professor McGonagall made an effort to clear his throat, but only nodded in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner she stopped and took out the silver lipstick container once more. She twisted it and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange. She could just see the bundle of blanket on the step of number four, a tabby tom cat sitting at guard nearby.

"Good luck, Holly," she whispered. Smiling sadly, she turned on her heel and with a swish of her cloak, she was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen.

Holly Evans rolled over inside her magically warmed blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the envelope beside her and she slept on, not knowing she was special, not knowing she was famous, not knowing she would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Evans' scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles and scare away 'that nasty tom cat sitting on our garden wall', nor that she would spend the next few weeks being prodded and grabbed at by her cousin Doris.

She couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their own glasses and saying in hushed, joyous voices: "To Holly Evans – the girl who lived!"

**A/N:  
** I wanted to do something a bit different from the normal when writing a Girl!Harry story. Often only Harry's gender would be changed and most of the time Girl~Harry would turn out to be boy-crazed or hormone-ridden/angst-machine. This story it a break away from those tales. It will have romance, yes, because as a female Holly will mature earlier than Harry. Will this mean she won't be awkward? No. Will this mean her love interests will include the same as in the series (Ginny/Cho) or Ron/Draco/other? Not necessarily.  
The main point in this story is to examine what would really change in a world where everyone was the opposite gender. This means that Dumbledore is a woman, McGonagall is a man and everyone is changed because of this. I certainly don't know where this is headed. I have a general idea, and I will try to stick to the main outline of the story as much as I possibly can without self-destructing the characters I write - there may still be Hocruxes and Hollows. There will definitely be a great evil, prejudice, action, adventure, friendships and lots of exploration of the world.  
I would like to make clear that Holly is not Harry. She doesn't think like him because she isn't male. She's female. And that makes a hell of a difference, especially when it comes to the interactions between her friends and enemies. Women just don't hold grudges_ like_ men do. That's not saying that grudges aren't held, hell no. Just that they way confrontations happen is different. Usually meaner.  
Well, we'll see where it all goes.

Also, this will be my only disclaimer because having one every chapter is just stupid. **We know that everything you recognise belongs to J. . It doesn't need to be stated at every turn. I'm just playing in her world with her characters. I rescind any claim to any type of ownership seeing as this is a fanfiction.** (Though if I find anyone who is not JK saying this is their work, woe betide you. I will find you and make you hurt.)


End file.
